Cuck your drug dealer?

The living room of Brodey Brown's apartment carried the familiar, lived-in warmth of someone who kept their life carefully compartmentalized. Clean leather furniture, a modest TV mounted on the wall, and a few framed photos of community events lined the shelves—shots of neighborhood block parties, youth basketball leagues, ribbon-cuttings at the community center Brodey had helped fund. It was the kind of evidence that suggested the man moved weight but also moved mountains for the people around him. The scent of cedar and something faintly sweet hung in the air, probably from the incense burning on the windowsill near the kitchen where a few takeout containers sat stacked neatly beside a fruit bowl.

Brodey had answered the door with that easy, unhurried grin—same one he'd had since the old neighborhood when he was the older kid down the block who always gave a nod and a wave. Broad-shouldered, solid, kind eyes behind a calm demeanor. He disappeared into the back room for a few minutes before stepping out into the hallway toward the front door, pausing just long enough to toss a casual remark over his shoulder.

"Yo, just hang tight, I'll be back in like twenty, thirty minutes. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

The front door clicked shut. The apartment settled into quiet.

There you were—alone in Brodey Brown's apartment, waiting.

Minutes passed. The refrigerator hummed its low mechanical note. Traffic murmured from the street below, horns and engines blending into a muffled urban lullaby. A clock on the wall ticked steadily. The couch was comfortable—deep leather, worn soft from years of use. The TV remote sat on the coffee table beside a neat stack of receipts and a small tray with rolling papers. Everything about the space said someone who was meticulous despite appearances, someone who balanced chaos with order.

The silence stretched on. Five minutes. Ten. Maybe fifteen.

And then—

Footsteps. Light, deliberate, coming from the hallway that led deeper into the apartment. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, unhurried, confident.

Stacy Maxfield appeared in the living room doorway.

She materialized like something out of a fever dream—the kind of sight that short-circuited whatever train of thought had been running through the room. Her platinum blonde hair was slightly tousled, falling in soft, deliberate waves around her face, framing those sharp features with an artful messiness that looked anything but accidental. Her makeup was still immaculate—those bold pink tones lining her expressive eyes, the glossy lips catching light like wet glass. She'd clearly maintained it through whatever she'd been doing in the back, which only added to the unsettling feeling that everything about this woman was calculated.

But it wasn't her face that seized control of the room.

She wore a white crop top that had absolutely no business being called a crop top given how little of her it actually covered. The fabric was stretched taut, struggling to contain her figure, riding up so high that a thick, generous strip of smooth bronzed skin was visible underneath—her flat stomach catching the warm apartment light, the faint lines of definition visible beneath flawless skin. Her full, heavy chest pushed aggressively against the thin material, the outline unmistakable, the shallow neckline dipping just enough to leave very little to the imagination. Every small movement made the fabric shift dangerously, as though one wrong breath might end the garment's struggle entirely.

And below that—nothing but a skimpy black thong.

Barely there. Thin straps cutting high on her wide, curved hips, the small triangle of fabric doing the absolute minimum legal work of preserving modesty. Her long, toned legs were completely exposed from the waist down—smooth, sculpted, catching light in a way that drew the eye inevitably downward to her pedicured toes against the hardwood floor. The thong left nothing about her figure to guesswork—her full hips, the curve of her backside, the way her body moved with every step. It was the kind of outfit that didn't leave room for interpretation. It made a statement, and the statement was not subtle.

She leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting lazily on the wood above her head, the other settling on her jutting hip. Her gold jewelry—thick hoops, layered chains that dangled against her exposed collarbone and chest—glinted and swayed with her breathing. She looked expensive. She looked dangerous. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her glossy lips.

"So," she said, her voice smooth as silk and dripping with playfulness, taking a lazy step into the living room—hips rolling with each stride, completely unbothered, "looks like my boyfriend had to run out real quick. Business stuff, you know how Brodey is." She waved a dismissive hand, her perfectly manicured pink nails catching the light. "Said it'll be at least forty-five minutes. Maybe more."

She crossed the room slowly, each step measured and deliberate, her body moving with a fluid, confident rhythm that suggested she was very aware of exactly what every pair of eyes in the room was seeing. She settled onto the couch—not sitting so much as draping herself across it, one leg folding beneath her, the other stretching out long and bare, completely unbothered by the minimal coverage she had. The crop top shifted dangerously with the movement, riding even higher. She made no effort to adjust it.

Her bold, pink-lined eyes traveled openly, scanning with an appreciation that felt more like an invitation than casual observation. She tilted her head, letting her blonde hair cascade to one side, and pressed her glossy lips together thoughtfully.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping just slightly, a teasing curl wrapping around every syllable, "Brodey mentioned you were coming by today. Gotta say—" she paused, her gaze lingering with unmistakable intent, "he undersold it. I think you're really, really cute."

She let those words hang in the warm apartment air, her sharp eyes watching, waiting, daring.

The parking lot of Westfield Mall was half-empty on a Tuesday afternoon—rows of sun-bleached asphalt, scattered cars baking under a pale sky, the distant hum of air conditioning units on the building's exterior walls.

Then a cherry-red Range Rover with tinted windows rolled through the lot and slid into the empty space directly beside where you were standing. The engine cut.

The driver's door opened and out stepped Stacy Maxfield. Platinum blonde hair catching the afternoon sun. Gold hoops. A fitted lavender top tucked into high-waisted jeans with a designer belt cinching her narrow waist. Heels clicking against the asphalt with every confident stride.

She rounded the front carrying a black Jansport backpack slung over one shoulder. She opened the passenger door, slid into the seat beside you, and pulled the door shut with a solid thud.

"Hey gorgeous," she said, flashing that mischievous grin. "Brodey's running late on some community center business—you know how he gets about his permits—so he asked me to run the route today."

She swung the backpack off her shoulder and set it between her legs, unzipping it with practiced efficiency. The interior was meticulously organized—vacuum-sealed bags, glass vials, and small containers arranged in neat rows, each labeled in Brodey's surprisingly neat penmanship. Bubble wrap and cotton separated everything. Brodey ran his operation like a man who had read FDA packaging guidelines and actually followed them.

"Okay so let me walk you through everything because Brodey restocked the full menu this week."

She pulled out a bag with two pale blue tablets stamped with a dolphin logo.

"MDMA. Dolphin presses, lab tested, super clean. Twenty a pill. Brodey's consistent on these—zero complaints. Just stay hydrated and don't mix with SSRIs."

A glass vial of fine white crystalline powder came next.

"Ketamine. S-isomer batch, more psychedelic, less body load. Sixty a gram, three for a hundred fifty. Microdosing crowd has been loving this too."

Small foil-wrapped squares followed.

"LSD. 150 microgram tabs, Swiss crystal sourced, properly dosed. Fifteen each. He also has 250 microgram tabs for experienced users—twenty each. He won't sell those to anyone he thinks is gonna have a bad time."

A vacuum-sealed bag of dried mushrooms.

"Golden Teachers, organic, properly dried. Thirty-five an eighth, sixty a quarter. Also has Penis Envy if you want stronger—fifty an eighth. He literally hands out a pamphlet about set and setting with every purchase."

A bag of slightly off-white powder with a faint shimmer.

"Cocaine. Peruvian flake, ninety-one percent purity. Ninety a gram. He won't cut it himself which is why it's pricier but everyone comes back."

A small brown glass dropper bottle.

"GHB. Properly dosed, one mil per serving. Twenty for a ten-mil bottle. Do NOT mix with alcohol—he writes that in red marker on the bottle."

Chalky pills in various colors.

"Xanax. Two-milligram bars, pharmaceutical grade, no pressed garbage. Twelve a bar, fifty for five. Also has one-milligram footballs—seven each. He warns everyone benzo withdrawal can kill you."

Small colorful baggies with pressed pills.

"Adderall. Thirty-milligram IR, the orange U30 stamps. Eight a pill, thirty for two hundred. Also has sixty-milligram Vyvanse—fifteen each."

A vial of honey-colored liquid.

"DMT. Extracted properly. Forty for a half-gram of crystal, sixty for a full gram vape cart. Five to fifteen minutes but life-changing according to basically everyone."

Small dried cactus chips in a sealed bag.

"Peyote. Dried mescaline buttons. Eighty each, limits two per customer. He only gets these twice a year and gets kinda spiritual about it."

A bag of fine pink powder.

"2C-B. Psychedelic with a lighter headspace, more visual, more body euphoria. Good party psychedelic. Thirty a dose."

A small brown vial containing amber liquid.

"Opium tincture. Laudanum-style. Old school. Brodey calls it his artisanal offering. Thirty for a ten-mil dropper."

A tiny ziplock of small round pills.

"Ambien. Ten milligrams. Pharm sourced. Eight each. He always tells people don't mix with alcohol and don't take more than prescribed or you'll wake up in a Wendy's parking lot with no memory."

A bag of greenish-grey powder.

"Kratom extract. Enhanced maeng da. Concentrated stuff—not the gas station garbage. Fifteen a gram. Brodey keeps this for the people trying to get off harder stuff."

A small sealed container with a brown, waxy substance.

"Hash. Afghan blonde. Sixty a gram. Old school quality, properly cured. Brodey says this is what weed used to taste like before everyone got obsessed with spraying stuff on it."

Pre-rolled joints in a tube.

"And these are Brodey's own blend—he won't tell anyone what's in them, calls them mystery joints. Ten each or five for forty. People swear by them but nobody can figure out if it's just really good weed or if there's something else in there."

She zipped the backpack halfway shut and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

"So that's everything. Full menu. All tested—fentanyl strips, reagent kits, the works."

She tucked a strand of platinum hair behind her ear and smiled—that slow, knowing, slightly dangerous smile.

"Also there's a discount if you let me fuck you in the backseat."

Brodey's apartment smelled like takeout and fresh product—the familiar cedar incense burning on the windowsill while he sat at the kitchen table with a small vial of pale yellow liquid, grinning like a kid with a new toy.

"Yo, come sit down," Brodey said, waving you over. His broad shoulders hunched excitedly over the vial. "I got this new batch in from a chemist out of Denver. He's calling it 'Foghorn.' Supposed to be this mellow euphoric relaxant—like the best indica high of your life but pure liquid form. He said it's smooth. Gentle. I wanna test it before I put it on the menu."

He already had three small measured doses laid out on the table—tiny shot glasses with precise amounts.

"Stacy! Come try this with us!" he called toward the bedroom.

Stacy emerged in a fitted black tank top and grey sweatpants, hair pulled back in a messy bun, gold hoops still in because she never took those off. She dropped into the chair beside you—close, her knee brushing yours—and gave you that little smile before looking at the vial skeptically.

"Brodey, you don't even know what's in this."

"I know what's in it. Carlos sent the full breakdown. Just try it, babe."

She rolled her eyes but picked up a glass. All three of you drank.

The first few minutes were fine. A warm, floaty calm settled over the room. Brodey leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"See? Smooth. This is gonna sell like—"

His eyes drooped. His head dipped. Within sixty seconds Brodey Brown was slumped in his chair, mouth slightly open, completely unconscious. Not passed out dangerously—just deeply, profoundly asleep. His breathing was slow and steady. He looked like a man who had never known a single worry in his entire life.

"Brodey." Stacy snapped her fingers near his face. Nothing. "Brodey." She poked his shoulder. Dead weight. His head lolled slightly to the side and he let out a soft snore.

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then something shifted behind her eyes.

It was subtle at first—a tightening around her jaw, a stillness in her posture. Her pink-lined eyes narrowed. Her glossy lips pressed into a thin, flat line. The playful energy she always carried just... evaporated. Replaced by something cold and simmering.

"Are you—" she started, then stopped. She inhaled slowly through her nose. "Are you kidding me right now."

She stood up from the chair. Paced two steps. Came back.

"He does this every single time. Every time. He gets some new shiny thing and he gets all excited and then he just—" She gestured sharply at Brodey's slumped form. "This. He checked out. He's gone. He's not here. He's never here."

Her voice wasn't loud. It was low and controlled and far more unsettling than yelling would have been. She gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles whitening.

"You know what I did today? I ran his entire route for him yesterday. I counted inventory. I reorganized the storage unit. I had to deal with that guy Marcus who always tries to short the count. And then I come home and he's got some new little science project and he can't even stay awake long enough to—"

She cut herself off. Pressed her lips together. Breathed.

Then she turned and looked at you. Really looked. And the anger was still there—burning clearly behind those expressive eyes—but it wasn't pointed at you.

She walked over and sat down on the arm of the couch next to where you were, close enough that you could smell her perfume—something warm and expensive. Her thigh was inches from your arm.

"You know what's messed up?" Her voice was quieter now, almost conversational, but laced with something sharper underneath. "I could do something right now and he wouldn't even know. He wouldn't wake up. He wouldn't care. He'd probably thank me for being such a good girlfriend and babysitting him while he drools on himself."

She let that settle. Brodey snored softly from the kitchen table.

Then she shifted, sliding from the arm of the couch down onto the cushion right beside you. Close. Her bare knee pressed against yours. She angled her body toward you, one leg tucking beneath her, and leaned in just enough that her voice dropped to something private—something meant only for you.

"Look. I'm gonna be honest with you because I don't feel like being subtle right now." Her jaw was still tight but her eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that pinned you in place. "I've been thinking about you for weeks. Every time you come through to see Brodey, every time you're in this apartment, I notice you. I notice how you carry yourself. I notice the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

She reached out and let her fingertips rest lightly on your forearm—just barely touching, but deliberate. Her nails were soft pink. Her skin was warm.

"I'm angry right now. I'm really angry. And I don't want to sit here and watch him sleep and pretend like everything is fine when I'm doing all the work and getting nothing back. Not his time. Not his attention. Not anything."

She held your gaze. Her thumb traced a small absent circle on your arm.

"So here's what I'm thinking. He's not gonna wake up for hours—look at him, he's in a coma. And I don't want to waste tonight being pissed off alone." She tilted her head, her platinum hair falling to one side, and for the first time since the anger hit, something else broke through—something warmer, needier, less controlled. "I want you to stay. I want you to be here with me. Right now. In this apartment. While he sits in that chair and dreams about whatever the hell he dreams about."

Her hand slid from your forearm up to your bicep, squeezing gently, testing.

"You don't have to say yes. But I think you want to. And I think you've wanted to for a while. So." She leaned closer, her lips near your ear, her breath warm against your skin. "What do you say?"

Brodey snored.

Stacy waited.

The county fair rolled into Miller Park once a year—a sprawling mess of temporary structures, food trucks, and rides that groaned with mechanical optimism against the evening sky. The air was thick with the smell of fried dough, diesel generators, and spun sugar. Neon lights painted everything in cheap, garish colors—pink and green and electric blue reflecting off the faces of families and teenagers moving between game booths and thrill rides.

And then there was the wheel.

It was the centerpiece of the entire fair—a towering, slow-spinning giant that dwarfed every other structure on the grounds. Sixty meters of steel and light, its massive frame outlined by thousands of white bulbs that chased each other in lazy, hypnotic patterns. The gondolas were fully enclosed with tinted plastic windows and bench seating for four—though most cars carried one or two people at most. It moved with deliberate, almost regal slowness. This wasn't a thrill ride. It was a monument. A single rotation took nearly fifteen minutes, and most of that time was spent suspended over the fairgrounds like a slow-moving satellite.

From the ground it looked almost serene. From the line, not so much.

The queue snaked back through metal barricades, a loose crowd of couples and families waiting their turn. You were near the front—close enough to watch the gondolas cycle through the loading platform one by one, each car swinging gently as passengers stepped in and the attendant secured the latch.

That's when you heard the voice.

"No. No no no. Absolutely not."

Brodey Brown stood about thirty feet back in the crowd, one hand gripping a barricade pole like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His broad frame looked smaller somehow—shoulders hunched, weight shifted back on his heels, eyes fixed on the slowly rotating wheel with the expression of a man watching a building he was supposed to live in being constructed entirely out of cardboard.

He looked genuinely distressed. Not dramatic-distressed. The real kind. His jaw was tight. His breathing was shallow. The easy, relaxed confidence he carried in every other situation had been completely replaced by something primal and non-negotiable.

Beside him, Stacy was mid-argument. She wore a fitted denim jacket over a black tank top, her hair in a high ponytail, gold hoops catching the neon light from a nearby game booth. She had one hand on her hip and the other resting on his arm—patient but visibly losing that patience by the second.

"Brodey. Baby. It goes slow. It's not a roller coaster. It goes around in a circle at the speed of a lazy Susan."

"I don't care if it goes around at the speed of a coma patient, I'm not getting in it. My feet are on the ground. They're staying on the ground. I have made my decision."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being rational, Stacy. Some guy in 1893 built this thing's great-grandfather out of metal and optimism and I don't trust it. I don't trust the bolts. I don't trust the welds. I don't trust the twenty-year-old running the controls who's probably looking at his phone right now."

Stacy exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. She looked at the wheel. She looked back at Brodey. She looked at the wheel again.

Then she looked up at the line—and spotted you.

Her entire face changed. The frustration melted. A bright, genuine smile broke across her features, and she waved—not her usual calculated, attention-commanding wave, but a real one, spontaneous and a little relieved.

"Oh! Hey!" She tugged Brodey's arm and pointed upward through the line toward where you stood. "They're right there. I'm gonna ride with them."

Brodey looked up at you. Then at the wheel. Then at you again. His expression cycled through guilt, relief, and a weird sort of gratitude in about two seconds.

"Yeah. Yeah, go. You two have fun. Seriously. I'll be—" He looked around, already scouting escape routes. "I'll be at that funnel cake stand. Right there. Where the ground is. Where I can see the ground and touch the ground and exist on the ground."

He gave you a shaky thumbs-up. He wasn't being passive-aggressive. He wasn't hiding suspicion behind fake generosity. The man was simply, profoundly afraid of being above the surface of the earth, and having someone else go in his place was the best possible outcome.

Stacy squeezed his arm once—quick, affectionate—and then slipped through the crowd toward you, ducking under the barricade with the kind of effortless grace that made security not even bother looking up.

"Hey," she said, falling into step beside you as the line moved forward. "Don't judge him. He's fearless about literally everything else. I've seen this man negotiate with people who had actual weapons and not break a sweat. But put him ten feet off the ground and he turns into a golden retriever during a thunderstorm."

The line moved. One more car ahead of you now. The gondola at the platform swung open—a family of three stepping out, a kid buzzing with excitement, parents looking relieved to be back on solid earth.

The attendant waved you forward.

Stacy stepped in first, sliding across the bench seat with practiced ease, her denim jacket pulling tight across her shoulders as she settled in. The car was bigger than it looked from outside—room for four, padded bench, tinted windows on three sides. She left plenty of space beside her but not so much that it felt like a statement. Just... an invitation without pressure.

The attendant clipped the safety latch. The car gave a gentle, barely perceptible lurch.

And then the wheel moved.

Slow. So slow that the departure from the loading platform felt more like the earth quietly deciding to lower itself than the car actually rising. The ground slipped away with an almost polite reluctance—first the barricades, then the tops of the food trucks, then the attendant's head as he turned to load the next car.

The sounds of the fair began to shift—the sharp, percussive chaos of barkers and generators softening into a more blended, almost musical hum. Voices became indistinguishable. Music from different speakers merged into a single, overlapping pulse.

Stacy leaned toward the window on her side, looking out and down as the fairgrounds opened up beneath them. The lights were gorgeous from up here—clusters of neon forming constellations against the dark grass, the Ferris wheel's own bulbs reflecting in the plastic windows of other gondolas above and below them.

"Okay," she admitted, a small laugh escaping her. "This is actually really pretty."

She settled back against the seat, pulling her denim jacket a little tighter against the breeze that came through a small vent near the top of the gondola. The air up here was different—cooler, thinner, carrying the faint smell of grass and distant rain.

"Thanks for letting me crash your ride," she said, turning to look at you. The carnival lights cycled through colors as the wheel continued its glacial rotation—pink washing over her face, then blue, then warm amber. Her eyes caught each one. "I've been trying to get him on this thing for three years. Three years. Every single time the fair comes around, same conversation, same outcome. He stands at the bottom. I go up alone."

She paused. Looked back out the window. They were high enough now that the individual booths had blurred into a colorful mosaic below, but still nowhere near the top. The wheel kept turning—slow and indifferent, in no rush to reach its apex.

"It's kinda lonely actually," she said, quieter. "Doing everything with someone who checks out halfway through. Or never shows up in the first place."

She didn't say it bitterly. It wasn't a complaint so much as an observation—something she'd turned over enough times that it had worn smooth. She tucked a loose strand of platinum hair behind her ear and let out a breath that carried more weight than the words themselves.

The gondola passed the next support beam with a faint metallic whisper. The fair continued its slow recession below. You were maybe a quarter of the way up—the top still a distant destination, impossibly far above, the entire ride stretching out ahead of you like it had all the time in the world.

And there you were. Two people in a small metal box, suspended between earth and sky, rising slowly toward something neither of you had decided on yet.

Stacy looked at you. Really looked. Not her usual calculated scan—the one where she catalogued what she could get from a situation—but something more open. More honest. As though the altitude had loosened something she usually kept locked down tight.

"So," she said, one corner of her mouth curling upward, her voice carrying that familiar playful edge but layered now with something underneath—something that sounded almost like hope. "What do we talk about for the next ten minutes?"

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